Stuart Aken's Blog, page 251

A Chain of Voices, by André Brink, Reviewed.

What a tremendous work this is. Ostensibly a story explaining the actions of a group of slaves in South Africa in the early 19thcentury, this tale of oppression, blindness, hypocrisy, injustice, love and prejudice is a startling and moving key to the lives of all those involved in the drama.
Each character has his or her own voice, expressing emotion and action in terms that bring that person to life on the page. The book is divided into 4 parts without chapters but with each section presented through the words of one of the many individuals who make up the cast. Everyone from the lowliest slave to the most self-congratulatory owner is allowed their say. There is no bias here. The actions of each character are described through the eyes of many as well as through the words of the individual involved in those actions. This technique, whilst making for a lengthy work, ensures that a fully rounded picture of the reality is received by the reader.
I’ve never read a work of fiction in which the people are so real, so varied, so open to examination. We’re exposed to honourable men, devious people, complicated women, thieves, scoundrels, heroes, wicked hypocrites, murderers, bullies, mothers, wantons; in fact, the entire panoply of human life. We experience evil, intense goodness, anger, love, hate, lust, usage, deep and unacknowledged hypocrisy, prejudice, ignorance, sacrifice, and every other emotion that can be imagined.
The 516 pages of the edition I read are packed with incident, emotion, information; all presented in styles to suit the specific narrators, without ever making the reader feel that even the lowliest, uneducated speaker does other than express the truth as he or she is convinced is the reality. Nothing so simple as the ‘unreliable narrator’ here. Everyone has a secret, some flaws, a view that’s not always in line with actual events. But this concentration on reality has the effect of making all but the most despicable of the characters more accessible, easier to empathise with, rather than alienating the reader.
Much is made of the position of the Bible and Christian values as promoted by the Boer farmers to their pagan slaves. Regular readers will know that I’m a passionate agnostic (if that doesn’t seem too close to an oxymoron for you) and I’m aware that this must colour my reading of this aspect of the story. But it’s difficult to see how the author could have had anything in mind other than the debunking of the utter hypocrisy of these supposedly devout people. He has them spouting texts that encourage fellow-feeling whilst they beat their unfortunate slaves almost to death. The masters take the women as and when they wish and then express disgust and surprise at the relationships developing between slaves.
Scars of a whipped slave (April 2, 1863, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, USA. Original caption: "Overseer Artayou Carrier whipped me. I was two months in bed sore from the whipping. My master come after I was whipped; he discharged the overseer. The very words of poor Peter, taken as he sat for his picture." (Photo credit: Wikipedia)The position of women in this society is wound through the story as a comment on inequality, paralleling that of the slaves. But the situation of the masters, farmers, traders, is described in terms that make it easier to understand how and why they should be capable of blindness and inhumanity in a savage land badly governed by distant authority. There are echoes here of the early days of the USA, when pioneers used the Bible, very selectively of course, to justify their cruelty and self-imposed superiority over their women and slaves. That such attitudes persist in such quantity today simply illustrates the self-perpetuating nature of the type of brain-washing that closed communities impose on their offspring. The South African situation of this book is such an accurate reflection of that persisting in the USA that the astute reader is forced to conclude that it was deliberate on the part of the author.
I’d like to see this piece of powerful, truthful and instructive fiction made widely available in all lands where prejudice, ignorance and religious extremism hold sway over the population. Any reading of this story must demand a re-examination of the views held by bigots, evangelical missionaries and those who continue to believe that colour is a rightful basis for prejudice.
I could go on at length but I’d much rather you read the book and came to your own conclusions. I found myself absorbed and involved in the story throughout, never feeling apart from events but always an integral part of what the author conveys with some of the finest writing I’ve come across. I think it’s redundant to say I recommend this. But, sometimes, a statement of the bleeding obvious is a necessary emphasis.
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A Present for the New Year.

Last year, at around this time, I published a short story as an ebook via Smashwords. I wanted to put it on Amazon Kindle as well, but they make it nigh on impossible to do so as a free book. It was, and remains, a free book for those who enjoy my writing.
It struck me that there are still many people around who don't have ereaders, so I'm posting the story here for those who'd like to read it. It's a bit of silliness wrapped in the celebrations that end one year and begin the next, a light-hearted romance with mildly erotic undertones, written tongue-in-cheek in the hope of entertaining.
Enjoy. (Oh, and if you feel so inclined, I'd love a review, placed anywhere you feel appropriate. Thanks)
And let me take this opportunity to wish all who visit these pages the very best of life for the coming twelve months that we have labelled 2013. Have a great New Year.


But, Baby, It's Cold Outside
For all that it's black as the proverbial out there, I'm required to venture forth if I'm to retain credibility in the current lover's eyes. First, there's the unexplained and ill-defined noise, which I ignore. Then, coincidentally, the light goes out, provoking a performance worthy of the heroine in those supposedly scary black and white B movies from the forties.The failure of the light turns out to be nothing sinister.'Just a blown bulb.''Replace it, then.''Call me an old romantic, but wouldn't firelight serve us better?'The response is unprintable and indicates an unhealthy reliance on artificial light. So, once I've restored adequate illumination, I'm ordered outside to see what made the noise.'Me?''It's your house.''As the woman, shouldn't I stay in the warmth and safety of my home whilst you, Macho Man, go fight the marauders?''Along with the rest of your gender, you claim equality. You have to deal with the downside as well as the up.''So far, I've experienced little up, except the obvious, and I'm pretty sure that's been as much benefit to you as it has to me.'He raises his eyebrows but not my hopes and I know I'm onto a loser; it doesn't help that my statement wasn't the truth, either. I wonder, in passing, why him? And then recall his superb taste in clothes and cars, his delicious and sensual touch, and the generous cut of his wallet, which has so far afforded me access to three first nights, a private viewing and the best table at Egon's. I can stand a little misplaced equal opportunity for the luxury and privilege that are his accessories. Wimpishness isn't the cause of his reluctance; he sincerely believes equality of the sexes means I should do whatever he'd be prepared to do on my behalf. Daft, I know; but he is a man, after all.Being rural, I ignore strange noises in the night, examining their cause in full light of day, if at all. He's a townie who puts up with the shouts of drunks, the screams of distressed women, the whistling of fools and the constant clatter of traffic past his trendy pied à terre but is made suspicious by the noise of something falling over outside.'It's just that old gate I stacked against the side of the house. The wind's blown it over.''Didn't sound like a gate falling over to me.''It's pitch bloody black out there. How am I supposed to see anything?''Use a torch.''Batteries are flat.''Well, we'll open the curtains and turn on all the lights, assuming they work.''They do. Mostly.'Raised eyebrows indicate his lack of faith but he accepts. 'Good.''And your monster of the night is just going to hang about out there, awaiting discovery, having received the signal of our intent?''Our?''We're conspiring jointly in the process, even if I'm the active member and you're merely the source of ideas.''Mmm.'I rise, turn on the spot. 'Look at me.''Yes, very lovely.''You really expect me to venture forth into the wild night with…?''Put something on and stop making excuses.'I don seductive red satin recently abandoned, rather than the woollen protection I know is appropriate. It'll be cold out there. New Year always is. But I won't be gone long and I intend to continue where we left off after the interruption of the unidentified noise. I suggest he turns on the downstairs lights, front and back, whilst I plunge into the frozen void.'You're not going out there like that on your own, are you?''Are you coming with me?''Are you mad?'I try a simple facial message but it doesn't get through. Insufficient intimate togetherness yet for such subtlety to connect, I suppose. 'Exactly how am I supposed to go outside without you, yet not be alone?'A pause for consideration. 'Be quick, then. I'll worry about you.''Not enough to accept my plausible explanation.'He avoids the shrug that his body and my expectations demand and makes do with a non-committal grunt.'Not enough to be the gentleman?''Equality of opportunity. This is yours.''But I don't crave such opportunity. In any case, I'm not worried by the noise.'Another grunt; distinctly negative and indicative that this is the end of the discussion, as far as he's concerned. That much of his subtlety I have learned.Outside, it seems even darker than the proverbial and I wait for light to issue through the curtains he's supposed to be opening. I wait. And slowly freeze. The darkness remains; unilluminated, unmoving and unmoved by my presence. I understand I am irrelevant to the void and begin to wonder if I represent a similar rank of importance to him.At last, a faint glow signals the start of his simple task, but at the front of the house. I left by the back door and he saw me. Is this contrary action merely pique at my rational response to his irrational fear? Or is it simple idiocy? Hardly the latter. I don't get involved physically or emotionally with imbeciles. Not deliberately, anyway. But I wonder why I've become so attached to a man who's beginning to seem remarkably like a prat. Except, he has his good points. The fact that he's unjustly wonderful at that most subtle of interpersonal activities adds to the attraction of his wealth, devastating good looks and multiple connections. I ponder, for a fraction of a second, whether I might be a tad guilty of superficiality here but I expunge that unworthy thought and recall the extraordinary evenings, nights, afternoons and mornings I've experienced since we met.The light at the back escapes at last through the raised kitchen blind and the drawn dining room curtains. I examine the area of garden I can see and note that the soft cold stuff assaulting me is snow, augmenting the frost already formed. Nothing moves but flakes of lightness and the tips of visible vegetation, shaking in the gale. It occurs I've denied any idea of what I'm supposed to be seeking and a question might afford me re-entry before I freeze further. I open the back door and call into warmth I'm tempted to re-enter.'What sort of noise?'He is by the fire; I can tell by the distance his voice has to travel. 'I told you.'I have no recollection of either being told or, if I have been told, of the message. 'No, sorry, that doesn't help.''Oh! You're useless. There's something out there. Just see what it is.''Well, there's a large area of garden, mostly immobile and recumbent under a falling blanket of snow, except where it's sufficiently fragile to be disturbed by the howling gale, of course. There's a fence, beyond which lie several thousand acres of fields, forests and hills, dissected by a river, currently out of my field of vision ...'As I list the inventory, he emerges into the kitchen.'Idiot! I mean something moving, something that shouldn't be there!''Ah. An alien? Ghost? Creature of the night, specified or un? Perhaps a monster from nightmare? A serial killer out for a midnight stroll? A lynch mob intent on suspending a victim, if not its credibility?''God, you're obtuse. And I'm freezing here with that door open in my robe...''I suggest you shut the door in your robe and give me a…''Look, it was a sharp slithering sort of soft thudding scraping noise.' And he shuts the door. Not the one in his towelling robe, but the more substantial wooden portal to the house, before I can ask from what direction this comprehensive oxymoron of a sound emerged.Disconsolate at being left out in the cold, wearing a garment designed to lure the eyes of men to my assets rather than protect them from frost, and unsocked wellies that barely insulate my feet from frozen ground, I begin a rapid exploration. Alcohol has lost supremacy by now and the threat of frostbite dictates I make a simple circuit to rule out any obvious cause before I return, bold cold and brave, to conquer his residual concerns with passion, before the night freezes my ardour: I can rest assured that his will not diminish in the waiting.The corner of the house allows the gale to swirl increasing flakes into a small tornado that lifts my scandalous hem and spatters snow against the skin beneath to melt and slowly slide in wetness down my legs. But there's nothing in the intervening darkness, between the dim light at the back and the dimmer light at the front, to suggest a monster might be lurking at that side of the house. I pass, unmolested, beside the solid brick barrier to the front garden; neat, hedged and deserted.Beyond the hawthorn and beech runs the narrow lane that leads eventually to the hamlet where my nearest neighbours celebrate the new arrival. And I recall we haven't made the usual ritual this time: I have no coal or logs, no money, salt or bread to enter with and bring the luck we all desire. Though, on being questioned, I'll deny any interest in or subjection to such craven superstition as 'first-footing'. In any case, he's supposed to perform that particular ritual, as the man.The front garden is also devoid of alien beasts, hobgoblins and mass murderers. I lightly skip along the beds of resting flowers, past the blank front door and across the white blanket that is now the drive. His red Ferrari, encrusted with a soft layer of white icing, like a little boy's birthday cake, is exhibited at his insistence for the hungry eyes of the envious before the garage door, behind which skulks my wheeled utilitarian box. Fooled by softness, I forget the constant puddle and slip on the ice it has now become. The robe helpfully lifts so that my naked buttocks slide along the frozen surface until the stone kerb brings me to a halt with only a spine-jarring jolt and superficial injury to my fast freezing passionate parts. I curse the night, rub the offended rump and other bits and struggle upright, glad no one saw my pratfall and exposure.The last side of the house, also in darkness, reveals no sign of monsters but there is evidence of some disturbance in the drifting snow. Tracks of recent footfalls meander, and the broken gate, which had been leaning against the house, has fallen onto the path. I right it. But will he believe I was correct in my original supposition when I give him this solution to his mystery?I turn the corner and tumble headlong over a dark huddled shadow that mumbles. I land against the dustbin, upside-down with my head buried in a small drift, and moon into the moonless night. An unknown hand molests my unprotected flesh and then hoists me back to my feet and suddenly I'm at the back door.He is there, in gratitude no longer worried by the door in his robe, which he's removed to reward my bravery with his undiminished and evident passion. The robe, that is, not the door. Behind me looms the huddled shadow that caused me to befriend the dustbin.He cries out in alarm. I turn, ready to attack and defend.''Appy New Year, m' dear. Shorry 'bout the clision back there. Dropped me lump o' coal an' I was tryin' to fine it. Firsht footin' an' all that.'It is the redoubtable Miss Fobiter; she of the three facial hirsute warts and fixed leering grin. I grin back, hopefully without the leer, and wrap my robe more tightly.By the time I've turned, he's vanished into concealing darkness within and I'm left stumbling my thanks to my nearest neighbour and inviting her in for customary seasonal cheer. The picture of departing gratitude, flouncing as though no longer quite so pleased with my solution to his fears, suggests I'll see New Year's Day arrive without his close company.'Thought you'd be on your own, like me, don't y'know?'I wonder whose car she thinks she passed on my drive and then recall her reputation as a woman resistant to normal consumer pressures. She probably didn't even notice it, or worse, thinks it's mine.My neighbour, whose first name she reserves as a mystery, insists on two full choruses of Auld Langsyne, which I'm powerless to resist. To my surprise, he returns to join in this ritual, his robe replaced. She greets him with a cursory assessment that suggests she finds him, because he's a man, wanting. But she accepts the second glass of cheer he politely offers. Two hours of pointless chatter pass as the fire slowly settles in the grate and he grows glassy eyed. At last, she decides it's time she visited other neighbours. I hold him close about the waist as she departs into the snow and we close the door on night.With her departure, my role in his earlier exposure is recalled and expressed in word and deed, the repelling hand shoving me unceremoniously back into my armchair.'If you think you're having your wicked way with me after letting that dirty old hag see me naked, you've another think coming.''I don't think she was interested in you; naked or otherwise.''You should've warned me. I don't like strange women seeing me undressed.'I'm being unfair and mighty inaccurate when I suspect, aloud, he's anxious at being found wanting. He sulks at the unguarded, unfounded suggestion the alcohol encourages me to make, and I watch him climb the stairs.He lingers at the turn on the landing taking all promise of passion with him. 'A real woman wouldn't take no for an answer.'Unsure whether this is an invitation or simply another assault, a reminder of my imperfections, I return to the fire, unwilling to be seen as coercive and determined to play the part of the injured party to the bitter end. I place more logs onto the embers, refill my glass with the last of the Chivas Regal I bought him for Christmas, and stare into the flames, imaging what might've been and recalling New Years that started more auspiciously.Lurking at the back of my mind is the suspicion that he'll forgive me, once he finds the bed a little wide and cold without my company. Just to encourage that idea and persuade him of my value, I sneak outside and bang the metal dustbin lid with the coal shovel. I'm back in front of the fire, waiting on the hearthrug, by the time he reaches the security and warmth of me and the blazing logs.I invite him to open the door in my robe. He does so willingly but, as I surrender to his delicious demands, I hear the gate fall over again and await his protest. Oddly, he seems preoccupied and doesn't even mention the noise, this time. Aahhh.
###

I hope this little piece of seasonal fun has amused you. Please consider it a gift in appreciation of your time and support.
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The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James, Reviewed

Not the cover of the edition I read, but the same publisher.A classic, of course, and, for the story, deservedly so. But this is one of those books, from the literary past, which might actually benefit from an update, a rewrite in the modern style. In many works of literature, the language, style of writing, method of expression all contribute to the overall effect of the story. This is not one of those works. This is a ghost story, an attempt to frighten and disturb the reader. But its effect is diminished by convoluted language, by unnecessarily complex sentence structure and by authorial intrusion. The pace is slowed and barriers are placed in the way of progress through the story without adding anything of value to the tale itself. Written for a different age, when time was of little consequence to those who had the means to read, it is a short novel that could easily have been told in half the words employed. In fact, such shortening would undoubtedly have improved the book.
The emotional impact of the story, once filtered from the excess, is potentially profound. Who could fail to be moved by the malign influence of the jealous spirits of the wicked dead on the innocence of children? Of course, the nature of the wickedness of those dead who provide the ghosts isn’t detailed, merely hinted at in that infuriating fashion employed by Victorian authors writing about sexual matters. We guess, but are never made certain, that the individuals whose spirits cause such consternation, are those of improper lovers. But the modern reader doesn’t harbour such restricted views of relationships, class barriers no longer exist, and the outrage felt by the governess and the housekeeper is therefore made ludicrous. If the language allowed the reader to accept the strictures of the day, it would have been easier to understand and even empathise with the emotions of the narrator and her friend. But I found the very language prevented my sympathies aligning with the social mores so that I frequently questioned exactly what was the evil these two dead people actually presented.
On the back of the edition I read, the blurb describes this book as ‘Widely recognised as one of literature’s most gripping ghost stories…’ I did not find it so. I found it tedious for much of the narrative, self-congratulatory throughout, and more concerned with a demonstration of the author’s cleverness than with any attempt to engage the reader with the emotions of the protagonists. Much repetition and a deal of extraneous information detract from the story itself. And the story is an excellent conceit. I think it could have been written so much better by employing much more discipline and far fewer words.
But, then, what do I know? The book has gained the status of a classic. I read the story, by the way, in the unabridged version of 1898, as published in 1991 by Dover Publications Inc. Would it encourage me to read more of James? I think not; I don’t have that much time to spare.
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Read Breaking Faith, Free: The Final Chapter

Here it is: the last chapter. I hope you’ve enjoyed the book. Please consider reviewing it. And, if you’d like it on your shelf or your eReader, see the note at the foot of the chapter.
For those who never started the free read, the whole book is now on the blog. I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January 2012. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and all 50 feature here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 50Sunday 5th December
Everything was white.My head hurt. I moved to touch the place where the pain was most severe and found I was covered with a quilt.‘Awake at last. How do you feel, love?’ Ma was sitting by the side of the bed, a worried smile on her face. ‘Don’t try to get up, Faith. You’ll need a time to settle.’I was in my old room at Longhouse. ‘Is Leigh here?’‘Sleeping. He spent all last night with you after we brought you back from the hospital, remember? He’s done in, poor love.’‘Mervyn’s in the…’‘The pervert’s dead, love. Bled to death before they got to him. Serves him right an’ all.’‘Bruce! He hit him and…’‘Leigh found him. You were muttering. He went up there yesterday afternoon. I’m sorry, love, your dog is dead.’I allowed myself the tears.Ma handed me a tissue. ‘Stay there, love, I’ll fetch you a cuppa.’She was gone before I could ask any of the hundreds of questions I needed answering. There was a knock. Leigh came in from his bedroom, weary but smiling at my wakefulness. I sat up and almost fainted. He held me close, rocking me gently as we wept quietly together for a few moments.‘Mervyn killed Netta.’Leigh nodded. ‘He admitted it when the police got to him. I’m not sure they did as much as they might’ve to stop the bleeding. He was dead when the ambulance got back for him, anyway.’‘Back?’‘They thought it was for you. Took you to hospital first. You came round briefly on the way and told them about Merv. The police were still in the village following your 999 call and they asked for the ambulance when they found him. How’s your head?’‘Aching and sore.’‘At least there’s no fracture, or you’d still be in hospital. You’ve a nasty bump, some missing hair and half a dozen stitches under that bandage but you’ll be fine in a few days.’ He leant forward and held me close again, hugged me close and tight. ‘God, Faith, I thought I’d lost you when Matilda called to tell me you were in hospital.’‘Where is Mum?’‘Downstairs with Ma.’‘Did Mervyn tell the police anything else?’‘He was nearly gone when they arrived; the knife was right through him. Must’ve known he’d had it. He boasted about killing Netta and attacking you. Said he’d raped you and started to laugh…’‘He didn’t. But he would’ve.’ I held back tears that fearful memory stirred up. ‘Nothing about the man Netta met when she ran off?’‘Man?’‘Mervyn wanted to scare me. He described how he’d found Netta, watched her. He followed her from Longhouse. She met a man on Lovely Seat. A man with a rucksack who was waiting for her. He watched them have sex; told me how she put condoms on him. “Won’t ‘ave to use ‘em on you, cunt. There’ll be nowt for ‘em to find after I’ve burnt this place down wi’ you inside it.” That’s what he said to me. He told me that the man and Netta had sex all morning and afternoon. When he went, Mervyn chased her. By that time, it was raining but he didn’t care. He chucked her dress on the barbed wire so she couldn’t get it back. When he caught her, he tied her to the fence. He kicked and raped her until he’d had enough and the weather got too foul for him. Then he hit her with the rock and dumped her in the pit. He told me what he’d done in order to frighten me. It worked.’Leigh hugged me close and was silent.Ma arrived with the tea on a tray. ‘Let her rest, Leigh. Poor lass has been through a terrible ordeal.’‘I know.’‘I’m fine, Ma. Really I am.’She poured the tea for us and left.‘This man, who was he?’I’d expected that. ‘No idea. Said he’d never seen him before. He asked her but she wouldn’t say. He made her, hurt her. He was a walker she’d met before. Said she’d arranged to meet him there that day because she liked sex with him in the open. That got Mervyn even madder. He didn’t say, but he was jealous. He made her cry and hurt her again. He was going to tie me up and rape me, Leigh, over and over and over again. He was going to kill me.’‘You were very brave. You’re safe now.’I let him think about the lie I’d told to make him lose the guilt he should never have felt, let him come to his own conclusions, as I knew he would. It was a shame to have to blacken my sister’s name but the living are more important than the dead.We drank our tea and he looked at me and held my hand, stroked my undamaged shoulder and arms, kissed my cheek and forehead. I felt the warm, soft love in his touch and felt safe and secure and cherished.‘Wasn’t my fault, after all.’‘Never was, Leigh.’‘She was just using us an excuse for sex with someone else. Jesus!’I slept.In the evening, he brought me my evening meal on a tray and I ate ravenously. Slept again.The following morning, he came in with a cup of tea. ‘Breakfast in bed?’I reached up and caught his hand, brought him down to kiss me. I coaxed his hand under the covers and felt the tingle of response. He was wearing a towelling robe and my fingers strayed through the gap to caress him and found his firm reaction. My lie had worked, the barrier had lifted.‘I thought I’d lost you, Faith.’‘I’m still here.’‘You always have been. I’ve been so stupid. Can you forgive me?’‘I always did, Leigh. I love you. There’s nothing to forgive this time, you just made a mistake because you didn’t know the facts.’‘I don’t know why you love me.’‘Why? Love’s nothing to do with why. The sky is blue: I love you. Night follows day: I love you. The sun is hot: I love you.’‘You’ve always been amazing. I love you. Will you have me back?’‘I never sent you away.’ I folded the cover back and drew him to me.‘You’re not well enough.’‘I’m the best judge of that.’‘The doctors said you…’‘Doctors aren’t always right. Doctors don’t always know best.’He frowned at that, as if I’d said something of profound importance and significance.‘What about your head?’‘You’re in my head; have been since the day we first met. I want you in my bed, Leigh. I want you in me.’Mum came up to see me and stopped halfway through the door. I caught her eye in time to stop her words and she looked puzzled for an instant before smiling. She shook her head at me in resigned delight and backed silently away so Leigh had no idea she’d been there. He never heard her chuckle and close the door before she returned downstairs. He was concentrating on loving me and I was all he saw, at last.
###
Well, that’s the end, folks. Enjoyed the ride? Breaking Faith is available in paperback (through online or high street outlets) or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. You might like some of my other books, which you’ll also find on that page. I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see. Look out for more of my writing. Coming soon, some fantasy for your enjoyment.
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Cliché Software Review.

In collecting information for my Writing Contests page, I came upon a site called ‘Writers’ Village’, which looked interesting. Needless to say (cliché), it runs a writing competition. However, my reason for this post is that the website owner, John Yeoman, also provides a number of free articles dealing with improving your short story efforts. I signed up for the free stuff and, as a result, received a link from John. This took me to http://www.cliches.biz/clichecleaner/, where I was able to download a trial version of software designed to spot clichés in written work.
Often, writers are unaware of even using clichés, let alone repeating the error by using them more than once. Similarly, repeated phrases are commonly overlooked by the most careful of editors, but will stick out like a sore thumb (cliché) to the alert reader.
A couple of days ago, on Xmas day, I posted a short story for readers and decided to use this as a test of the software. The results are shown in the screen shot below. I was pleasantly surprised by the few instances that appeared in the story. But I’m conscious that, especially in longer works, I’m prone to the occasional cliché, and I bet you use them as well. I like the clear style of the software and its ease of use. It’s a good old no-nonsense tool and a worthy addition to any writer’s toolbox. At present, you copy and paste the piece of work into the program, which has the look of a basic text editor. However, the designer is currently working on an update, which will allow users to open files direct from Word. This upgrade will be offered free to purchases of the current software. To be honest, I had no problem with the copy and paste (repeated phrase) process, but a direct route to a file would obviously be preferable. There are four options to control the way the software selects and displays the clichés and repeated phrases it finds, but the default position was all I needed.
If you click on the graphic, it should bring it up in a new window at a larger size.
As this was a trial version, I decided to look into costs for the full version. It’s so cheap it’s hardly worth considering, when you recognise how useful it will be for you. The cost of the full program is $12.95, which translates currently to £8.29 or €9.79.
I’ve downloaded the full version and will use it in editing my work from now on. In fact, I used it on this post. Any tool that can help improve the quality of writing must be considered seriously by every writer hoping to gain and retain a worthwhile readership, after all.
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Procrastination Revisited.

English: A Diagram of procrastination cycle. Task features, internal factors, irrational beliefs, behavior and consequences are shown. used for a university assessment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It’s possibly the most dangerous of all threats to anyone who works alone in a self-motivated, self-controlled situation; the danger of procrastination. Regular readers will know I’ve visited this topic before: here are the links to those posts; 8 March 2012 (The Dangers of Distraction) , 7 June 2012 ( Procrastination is the Thief of Time) , 25 Nov 2012 (Do You Work Best in Chaos or Control?)  So, why the 4th visit in a single year? Well, if you take the time to visit the side panel to the right and scroll a good way down (you’ll need to dive below the ‘Popular Posts’ piece), you’ll discover a table I was sent by www.onlineclasses.orgin response to my previous posts. The table, headed  ‘Procrastination Nation’, features some interesting and salutary stats on the way we waste out time. If you click on the table, a new window will open in which you can read the short piece from Online Classes and view the table at full size. I think it’s a worthwhile way to spend a few minutes, and I recommend it, especially if you’re prone to distractions. And, no, the irony is not lost on me!Read, absorb, enjoy and take note.
Related articles The Irony Of Procrastination Procrastination Procrastination is a dirty word...or is it? FreeAgent Friday - the procrastination issue Procrastination Puzzler-Ask Paula for Some Timely Tips

A Christmas Gift.

It's a bit cheesy, since it was written for a rather old-fashioned women's magazine, but, what the hell? It's Christmas: enjoy a cosy tale from me, with my best wishes for the season.


A Display of Love
‘But, what’s it all for, Dave?’‘What’s it all for? What’s it all for? Isn’t it obvious, love? I’m not having that moron next door outdoing me again.’‘Does it matter?’‘Of course it matters, Shirl. Look, he got a first for his marrows, a second for his carrots and then, to cap it all, they give him a commendation for that lousy holiday snap he called a landscape. I tell you, Shirl, that so-and-so knows someone. Else he knows where the skeletons are hidden.’‘That was all last summer. What’s it got to do with Christmas?’‘Well, we all know what Christmas means to him, don’t we?’‘You’re obsessed, do you know that? I just want this Christmas to be normal, Dave. Like everyone else’s. I’m fed up of the time, trouble and cost we put into decorating the outside. Stuff I only get to see when I’m coming home or leaving. Why can’t we do the inside this year?’‘No one sees the inside, Shirl. What’s the point of that?’‘I see it. You see it. The kids and grandkids see it. No, Dave; I’ve had enough of this stupid competition. I want my Christmas back.’Her stance said she was serious and, even if he’d had his back to her, the tone of her voice made her feelings clear. And when Shirl meant it, you’d better do as she expected. He looked at the collection of lights, blow-up figures, plastic lawn decorations and flashing signs he’d gathered over the years and felt a small pang of disappointment. But Shirl had a point. He’d spent good money, too much time and far too much effort on the whole project. Why, he wondered, hadn’t she said before it got almost out of hand? What was it all for, she’d wanted to know. And he knew the answer. It was pathetic, really. To outdo his show-off neighbour. Hell, he didn’t even like the man. Why was he so intent on competing with him?He looked out of the window and saw Bob fixing the first lights to the cherry tree in his front garden. He felt an urge to go out there and start on his own display, a slight urge to make this year’s display a sight the whole village would come round to view. But, really, he knew the motivation was just to do something better than Bob and be recognised for that for once. Bob always got the prizes, never Dave. Prizes. Prizes? ‘You know, Shirl, who cares about the odd silver cup, a certificate signed by the Vicar? I mean, what’s it mean, after all?’Shirley, unexpectedly, embraced him. ‘Thanks, Dave. I appreciate it. I know it’s hard for you to give it up after all this time. But I’m proud of you. I don’t need awards and certificates to tell me how good you are at all sorts of things. And they never give prizes for the things that really matter anyway.’He saw that look in her eye, knew what she meant and abandoned the pile of decorations for a while. He’d decide what to do with them later. Probably return them to the loft, for now, anyway.He still had a spring in his step when he returned home from work the next day. He parked up outside as usual and noticed Bob back at it next door. ‘Not botherin’ this year, old man?’Dave forced a smile at the condescending tone and just nodded noncommittally as he strode down the path. The Christmas tree was in the window; a few effective lights decorated the Magnolia in the centre of his lawn, as a greeting for visitors, but that was all. Understated, was what Shirley had called it.‘Looks lovely. I’ve always felt too much looks just cheap and gaudy. I mean, Bob’s display’s just showing off for the sake of it. The man’s too full of himself.’It was good to know she preferred him to the moron next door. Shirley’s appreciation was a prize worth having. ‘No, Bob, I decided against, this year. I see you’re up to your usual standard. Mind you don’t blow a fuse.’‘Oh, no chance of that, old man. Taken all the precautions, I have. No danger of a power cut here. Not like some I could name. All the power on one big fuse. I’ve got a special circuit for this lot, you know.’He did know. Bob had boasted about it two years ago on the memorable occasion when Dave’s power cut blacked out the house for a day. He’d really rubbed his nose in it, smirking as the electrician came round to sort out the problem.‘Aye, well, have a happy one. I’m off in for my tea.’ And in he went, before he was tempted to wipe the condescending smile off the moron’s face.Shirley greeted him with her usual warmth, the aroma of homemade lamb stew welcomed him into his home, and Christmas carols played lightly in the background. ‘Nice, but it’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?’ He nodded at her outfit, the one she normally reserved for their private Christmas party, on Boxing Day. ‘Thought I’d treat you. You’ve been so good over the decorations and I know how much you like me in this. Anyway, thought you might like a surprise this year on Boxing Day.’He raised a quizzical eyebrow.‘Oh no. You’ll have to wait and see. Now, come and have your tea, love.’‘I’m supposed to eat whilst you sit opposite me looking like that?’‘Think of it as an appetiser.’It was, so he did.Two days to go and Bob was still in the garden when Dave arrived home a little the worse for wear, after the works Christmas do, as the taxi dropped him off outside the gate.‘Now then, Bob, nothing better to do than festoon your house with lights and Santas, eh?’Bob’s wife, a mousy woman with a sharp tongue who, Dave suddenly realised, he’d never spoken to, was watching tight-lipped from behind the glass in the front room. Though, whether she was watching Bob with approval or dismay was impossible to say from her expression. But Dave realised that he had one thing in his life that Bob didn’t have. He had Shirl. Shirley was worth a thousand, a million cups and medals and certificates.‘Wait there, mate.’Shirley was waiting in the hall, her face covered in questions but the greeting kiss ready as always. He indulged her and himself first and then extricated himself with reluctance and difficulty.‘Come and give us a hand, love. Then I’ll be able to concentrate better.’He dropped the loft ladder and started handing all the stored decorations down to Shirley. The look on her face was hard to ignore, but he was determined. She took it all downstairs with him, disappointment written large on her pretty face. But she said nothing; knew him too well when he was in this mood.He gathered the stuff together, with her help, in the hallway. ‘Right, the rest I’ll do on my own. Won’t take long, love.’‘Tea’s almost ready.’There were tears in the corners of her eyes, her lovely eyes, and he almost capitulated. But he’d made up his mind and, once started, he was going to finish.‘Won’t be long.’Bob was still putting the finishing touches to his display. His wife still watching. Dave transported everything from the hall into the crisp garden until the house was empty of the Christmas show. ‘Wonder if you’d give me a hand with these, Bob?’Bob looked shocked at this suggestion but seemed unable to resist the opportunity to boast. It took the pair of them another three hours but when they’d finished, both were happy with the result.‘Best ever, Bob. What do you think?’‘Brilliant, Dave, brilliant. Got to hand it to you, this time.’‘One more touch, I think.’ He went round the back to his shed and found what he was looking for. Bob looked at the small wooden box with its slot in the top and the hand-painted sign advertising the display as a charity raising event and asking for donations.‘Village Hall fund, I thought?’Bob nodded, dumbfounded. A few neighbours had ventured out into the chill of the night and looked on admiringly as Dave affixed the box to the fence. A few even emptied their pockets of change into it. Dave nodded his thanks.He said good night to Bob, thanked him for his help and went inside. Shirley was still disappointed.‘Tea’s ruined.’‘Come and have a look, Shirl.’‘I don’t think so, thank you.’‘Bob says it’s the best ever.’She looked up, tears still threatening.‘Come one, love. Just a quick look. Then I’ll not say another word about it. Promise.’Reluctantly, and because she loved him in spite of his failings, she went with him to the door. He put his hands over her eyes and guided her down the front path to the pavement to give her the best view. Once in place, he removed his hand. Shirley gasped and then was silent as she took it all in, including the box and its sign. ‘Oh, Dave, you’re brilliant. And Bob’s all right with it, is he?’‘Think he’s still getting over the shock, to tell you the truth.’They stood and admired Bob’s house and garden, covered with lights, figures and all the blaze of commercial Christmas, then at their own place, still with just its simple white string of lights twinkling on the Magnolia and the Christmas tree in the window.‘Wonderful, Dave. The whole village will be talking about this. I think you’re marvellous.’They wandered back down the path together and inside to the warmth of their house. Shirley closed the curtains on the lights from next door and settled happily for the gentle glow of the Christmas tree. ‘I think you deserve your Boxing Day surprise early, Dave.’ She poured him a small measure of his favourite and dashed upstairs to change.When she returned to the room, he was ready and waiting and he knew no amount of awards and certificates could ever mean more than the woman he loved.

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 49

This is the penultimate chapter. Enjoy what’s left of the ride.
For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 49
Tuesday 30th November
My return from Scotland had been so full of hope and expectation. Reality killed all that along with Netta. I examined my reactions to her death and found, amongst the grief and sorrow, I could blame both her and her attacker but neither Leigh nor myself. I felt no guilt, no responsibility, and Leigh’s insistence on his fault confounded me.At first, I accepted he must be grieving in his own particular way. He would eventually leave that stage and return to his normal self. It was clear he found comfort in my arms and derived pleasure from our nearness, so I couldn’t understand his determination to avoid me. It wasn’t important, for the moment, that he couldn’t make love. The trauma of discovering Netta’s naked and abused body coupled with his natural grief at her loss caused that. Time would sort it out; time, patience and understanding from me. Alex Comfort’s book had taught me many things but that was a most important lesson.Leigh, having lived so long through and for sex, seemed incapable of understanding it was just one aspect of our lives together, only part of our relationship.I wanted him inside me again, I wanted to make love. Of course I did. But I could and did still love him without sex. Just to have him in my arms, to have his arms round me, was joy and pleasure. There was more than comfort in our embrace, more than mutual support.He couldn’t see it.And his obsession with Netta made it hard for him to accept she was dead. He had to keep her memory alive, had to keep the image of her clear before him as though that would somehow cover up his guilt. Guilt that was misplaced and unnecessary. It had been difficult enough for me to bear his fixation with Netta when she was alive; to have her form a barrier between us now she was dead was almost unbearable.Eric’s death changed everything. In practical terms, it brought me a new home without the effort of finding one; and with it, an escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Longhouse. It brought me Bruce and his unquestioning devotion and loyalty. And it brought Zizi up from London, ostensibly to give me her support and comfort. When I heard them at it through the night I knew I had to leave. He could find a way to fuck Zizi, but not a way to make love with me.I’d been in Dad’s old cottage for a week, though it wasn’t strictly mine in a legal sense until much later, with Bruce my only companion, when I received news that Heacham’s old Will had been found in favour of myself and Hope. He’d failed to change it after I’d left. I was surprised to learn I now had two cottages. I’d always thought Heacham’s place was rented. But he’d apparently inherited it from his parents. What, I wondered, had he done with all the rent I’d paid for him over the years? It turned out he, or rather I, had been the sole payer of rent for the old stone barn he and his cronies used as their chapel. The rest he’d hoarded in bank accounts and in a box in cash under the bed.I found grim satisfaction in regaining what I’d lost to him and great delight in ending at once the informal agreement on the chapel. The few who’d joined him in his grotesque distortion of Biblical legend faded into obscurity amongst the community once their meeting place was advertised as ideal for conversion to holiday accommodation.I would have to take decisions on behalf of Hope but I went to see her anyway. I wish I had let her be. She was all flab and bedsores; her lovely hair cut short, dry and unstyled, her skin red and flaking. There was no dignity in what she’d become. She was no more than meat kept alive and I wished they would let her die in peace if that was the best they could do for her. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t remove her from their care and knew I shared their guilt in my refusal. I used her share of the funds from the Will to employ a private nurse to see her three times a week and care for her skin and general health. I would do no more for her myself; it was pointless, she didn’t even know me. I’d spent my early life sacrificing my needs to the demands of others. It was time I lived for myself.Heacham’s cottage was a mess and bore the stench of death. I threw the windows open to bring in fresh air but knew I could never live there. It was foul and full of memories I wanted to erase. For three days, I cleaned and cleared out rubbish, burning everything of his, including a handful of foreign-language, pornographic magazines that lay stained and scattered on the floors.I restored it to some semblance of tidiness so I might do something with the place. Once finished, I was full of tension, angst and bitterness. I must free myself of the memories of Heacham and that house if I was ever to live in peace. I needed some sort of symbolic act, some spiritual rite to wash me free of the filth I associated with his memory. The tarn offered an attractive solution. It was November but not yet seasonally cold and the autumn rains had filled the lake with clear cleansing water.I put on my working underwear, grabbed a towel and walked up the hill, Bruce running ahead of me as if impatient to get to the tarn. In the shadow of the trees, with sunlight sparkling on the silent water, I folded my outer clothes; the idea of Mervyn watching me swim naked had spoiled the place to some extent and I wasn’t prepared to risk treating him again.The water was cold enough to take my breath away but I waded in until I was able to swim. The cold and the clarity of that fresh, untainted water flushed away my tension and I felt my spirit healing within me as the tension left. A few strokes took me to the very centre and I ducked myself beneath the surface and struck into the depths. Kicking hard, I touched the bottom and then pushed myself hard and fast toward the light above. I broke surface and gulped the sweet, fresh air and laughed aloud in exultation.Bruce barked. I turned to see Mervyn in the trees, a large fallen branch in his hand. Bruce stood, hackles high, menacing the lout as he approached my clothes.‘Go away, Mervyn! Leave me alone.’His silence was unnerving. Bruce went for him and Mervyn shook him off his arm. I had no time to decide what to do. He fended Bruce off with the stick. I was swimming, wading, running for the bank before I ever thought of what I was doing. As I emerged from the water, Mervyn turned to me and gave a savage kick to Bruce. My poor dog was hurt and he caught him by his collar in one hand, the other holding the branch over his head.‘Dog’s fuckin’ dead, less you do as I say. Get them off, cunt.’‘Leave my dog alone. He’s done nothing to you.’‘Off. Or the dog’s meat, cunt.’ He waved the bloodied bough and Bruce suddenly seemed so vulnerable. Perhaps I could buy time, distract the pervert. I slowly slipped off the bra and made myself stand proud.‘Them an’all. Get the fuckers off.’ He waved the bough close above Bruce’s head and I knew I had no choice.I stood naked before him and understood what he did not; that he had no way to rape me whilst holding Bruce. If I were to run, he’d be forced to make a choice. And I was certain I knew what choice he’d make. Bruce would be safe.He took a step forward. ‘On the ground, cunt. Legs apart an’ arms underneath. Or I’ll whip your tits with this.’I stooped and grabbed a handful of wet pebbles. He was so engaged by my body, he failed to notice what I was doing. As my stones peppered him, he was startled into dropping his weapon.I took my chance and ran. ‘Come on, Bruce!’The fool moved to my clothes. As if I cared about that when he threatened my very existence. I ran for the cottage as fast as I could, his mistake giving me the lead I needed.Heavy, fat and unfit, he wasn’t as fleet as I. But I had to watch for sharp stones that might damage my bare feet and disable me. And I’d misjudged him. He paused only to batter Bruce hard enough to stop him running with me. I stopped, uncertain what I should do; concerned for my dog.But he moved away from Bruce and started toward me. I turned and ran again. I gained on him only slowly and he was still within sight as I reached the cottage. I’d left the back door unlocked and I opened the garden gate, closing and bolting it behind me, and was quickly inside the cottage and safe. I locked and bolted the back door, top and bottom, and leant with my back against it, breathing hard and fast but relieved to be secure inside whilst he was locked outside.The front door opened. I’d left the key in my coat. He’d watched me leave by the front door, seen me pocket the key, and followed me to the tarn. I suspect he took the key whilst I was in the water, just in case.He took his time, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He locked it and put the key in his pocket. I desperately tried to return to the back door I’d just secured. But he was in the kitchen before I’d undone the top bolt and I had to dodge round the table to escape him.There was blood above one of his cold eyes. My stones had been more effective than I’d thought.‘I’m gonna fuck you, cunt. On the table, on the floor, over the chair, up your cunt, up your arse, in your mouth. Then I’m gonna beat your fuckin’ brains out, just like I did that other lyin’ cunt. Onny, wi’ you, I’ll leave my cock in when I come ‘cos no-one’s ever goin’ to know what happened to you. Your body’ll burn with this house once I’ve ‘ad enough. But I’m gonna teck me time. I’ll tie you up an’ come back to fuck you every day for as long as I like. An’ no one’ll know.’He studied me as he took off his coat. He eased each of his boots off in turn. He untied the string he used for a belt. ‘Gonna tie your ‘ands together wi’ this. Tight, so it hurts.’ He removed his trousers. ‘This is gonna split you an’ meck you bleed an’ scream before I’m done wi’ you.’I was shivering now that I’d stopped moving, still damp from the tarn, cold from the air as I’d run, and terrified by his threats. ‘Leigh’ll be here soon. You’d better go, if you know what’s good for you, Mervyn.’Fear flashed briefly across his face and then he sneered. ‘Think I’m fuckin’ stupid? You ‘aven’t seen Leigh in days. I bin watchin’ you ever since you come. Seen you around the ‘ouse in nowt but your knickers. See you now in nowt at all.’‘I don’t understand why you hate me, Mervyn. What have I done to make you dislike me so?’‘You and your whoring sister got me sacked. Cunts! Well, I did for her and she were beggin’ for mercy before I finished her. Your turn now. You’ll teck longer, be more fun. No one comes up ‘ere since your pervert father topped hissen. They say it’s haunted. Soon be haunted by more’n ‘im. Like being a ghost, will you?’‘What do you want from me, Mervyn?’He moved suddenly but I reacted as quickly and kept the table between us.‘Want? I’m gonna ‘ave what I want, cunt, whether you like it or not. I’m gonna ‘ave you. Any way I want and as many times as I like. You can’t make no bargains wi’ me. I can do what I like wi’ you.’I put my hands on the table to steady myself, emotion and physical fatigue making me suddenly unsteady. My hand caught the edge of the table. My finger caught the handle of the drawer. I opened it and grabbed the large carving knife that Heacham had kept razor sharp to slice the Sunday roast.Mervyn saw the blade and backed involuntarily from the table. He searched for a weapon and I took my chance, grabbing the teapot from the sink behind me and throwing it at him as hard as I could. Caught off guard, he moved too late and it hit him on the side of his head. I dashed from the kitchen and slammed the door closed behind me.Desperate, I pushed the armchair against it before he had time to recover. For a few seconds, I stood, uncertain of my next move. It gave him time to recover and barge through into the sitting room. He was armed with the wooden rolling pin and came straight at me.I dodged his first blow and struck out blindly with the knife. I felt resistance and saw blood drip from his free hand.‘Cunt!’He swung at me again and I ducked, the end of the rolling pin crashing against my shoulder. I turned and side stepped. This time I held my ground as he rushed at me. The knife stabbed through his shirt and into his midriff as he brought the rolling pin down, hitting the top of my head.I was stunned for a few seconds, blackness fighting my instinct to remain conscious. I won through the pain and dizziness to find blood flowing across my left eye. Mervyn was staggering nearby with the knife still in his body. I picked up the empty coalscuttle and slammed it as hard as I could across his head. He stumbled and turned to face me. His hands were scrabbling at the knife and his face was drained and white. I picked up the rolling pin from the floor and hit him back and forth across his face and head. He put up his hands to defend himself and rose from his knees to try to reach me. I moved aside as he came forward and he fell onto his face. I hit him again on the back of his head and then dashed to the front door. It was locked and he had the key.I jumped hard on his writhing body as I passed and rushed for the back door. Frantic with terror, I undid the top bolt, turning to see if he was behind me. There was no sign of him in the kitchen as I ran from there into the back garden and opened the gate. I peered round the cottage, fearing he might have opened the front door. But he wasn’t there. I ran down the stony lane, heedless of the sharp stones cutting my feet.Mrs Greenhough’s shop was closed. Early closing day.I stumbled across the Green to the red telephone box, picked up the receiver and dialled 999.‘Police and ambulance. I’ve been attacked and I think I might’ve killed….’
###
Impatient for the final chapter? It’ll appear after Christmas. If you’re really that impatient, perhaps you can persuade someone could give you it as a Christmas present. It’s available in paperback (through online or high street outlets) or ebook format for whatever ereader you use, just click on the cover picture or visit ‘My Books’. I’d appreciate a review, posted wherever possible - Amazon, Goodreads, Smashwords, or any other bookish site. Reviews get indie published books noticed, you see.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
Like my author page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAkenRead on Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4234877.Stuart_AkenStumble with me: http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/stuartakenPin with me here: http://pinterest.com/stuartaken/Buy my ebooks via Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartakenUSA readers, see my author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/stuartaken(for some odd reason, this type of link isn't yet available on Amazon for UK)Join my professional connections on LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/stuart-aken/22/1b6/aaa

The Results, the Answer, the Winner!

Briefly, for those who entered last week’s competition to win a paperback copy of Breaking Faith, here’s the result you’ve all been waiting to hear.
The question I posed for the contest was: ‘In Breaking Faith, what’s the opening line of Chapter 11?’The answer, of course, was: ‘I was not afraid of contact with others; I simply had not experienced it.’
No one who entered had the wrong answer, so it was all down to the draw.
The name drawn out of the hat was Rasuna from Sumatra, and the book is winging its way across the seas even as you read this, inscribed with the special message requested by Rasuna.
Congratulations, Rasuna; enjoy the read. And my thanks to all who entered the contest; commiserations to the unlucky majority. 
Related articles Contest: Win a Signed Copy of Romantic Thriller.

Read Breaking Faith, Free: Chapter 48

You’ve come so far with me and the end is close. Continue to enjoy the ride.
For those who haven’t been following the free read, I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have featured here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search by chapter number. If you missed the start, you’ll find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends along. As an author, I want people to read my writing, simple as that.
Chapter 48
Sunday 12th September
‘Sorry? Sorry? Does that bring back Netta’s laughter and joy? Does sorry make it better? Will sorry restore her to me? You think you’re sorry, you shit of shits; you will be when I’m done with you.’‘Matilda! Leigh was out all night looking for her. It wasn’t his fault she ran off the way she did, she was always doing it.’‘You would stick up for him. You’re as good as his mother, you’re bound to side with him.’‘Want someone to blame, Matilda? And you do. Blame the devil who chased her across that fell and threw her into the pit.’She looked at Old Hodge’s face and something reached her. He had a way of getting through to people with few words.She broke down and wept without restraint and allowed me to comfort her this time. Ma made the ubiquitous pot of tea as I nodded my thanks at Old Hodge.When she’d sobbed herself into exhaustion, she asked me to explain, to tell her exactly what had happened. It was a chance to explain to Ma and Old Hodge as well and they listened with few interruptions.‘When’s Faith due back home?’‘Week on Saturday.’‘Netta’ll be long underground by then. I don’t know what…’‘Not if there’s been foul play. They may not release her… her body, if there has to be a trial.’But they did. The inquest followed on the Wednesday and they found her to be the victim of unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown. She’d been brutally raped and one of the fractures to her skull had occurred before she’d been thrown into the pit. Conjecture was she’d been chased, caught, bound and raped. She’d then been knocked unconscious, and dumped in the pit, probably still alive until she hit the bottom. It sickened and enraged me but I was powerless to act in any way at all.Heacham had been the obvious culprit except his own time of death coincided with Netta’s. Whilst the forensic and medical evidence allowed a short overlap between the two events, it was unlikely he could have made it back to his cottage and done away with himself in the time allowed. In any case, there was nothing at the cottage to indicate he’d been out in that rain. His clothes were dry. His note, confessing relatively minor sins other than the multiple rapes of Hope, made no mention of Netta’s death.To our relief, the coroner released Netta’s body for burial, though not cremation, once all tests were done. There was little forensic evidence to help the case. The rapist had either used a condom or removed himself before ejaculation. The only semen found was mine. There were no foreign pubic hairs mingled with hers, no skin, raked from his back, beneath her fingernails. And the rain had washed her skin clean of any pollution from her murderer, no fibres, nothing on her that wasn’t her own. Only one thing puzzled them; the grit and tiny shreds of vegetation lodged within the flesh of her bruised vulva. The conclusion was she’d been kicked by a booted foot. But whether before or after the rape, no one could say.The guilty rock he’d used to club her was belatedly discovered on the hillside where I’d waited for the dawn. Nearby, in the heather, lay the cup from my flask. I hadn’t even missed it. When they arrested me for the crime and I admitted my complicity, Ma’s strident denials were treated with indifference. But Matilda came to my rescue, explained to them in terms they understood and secured my release. She drove me home in time for me to change for the funeral.She remained at Longhouse, as Faith was due back the next day and she wanted to be there. I spent the afternoon in a state of restlessness that drove Matilda and Zizi almost to despair. They sent me to the office with instructions to do something useful and to get out of their hair. Going through the backlog of mail on my desk, I came across Faith’s letter.I read her words with growing disbelief and almost tore up her pastel sheets of pain. I almost took her things and threw them on the drive. I almost laughed at her amazing innocence and honesty and callous indifference about my feelings. How could she do that in cold blood and then write to me about it in such candid detail? How could she say she loved me and then go off and screw a stranger, just for some peculiar experience? How could she…?’I was so confused and bitter, I gave the letter to Matilda and Zizi, asked them the questions, how?‘How could she, in perfect innocence, do just once what you did all the time in full knowledge of the facts before you finally took her? How could she fulfil what she saw as a sacred duty to her dad? How could she not?’‘How could Faith forgive you all the pain and rejection you heaped on her? How could she hang on to her love for you when all you gave her was hurt and dismissal? I know how, Leigh, because through all the hopelessness and pain I love you just as she does.’‘Oh, Leigh, what’ve we done to them, to Netta and to Faith? What have we given them? What lessons have we taught? I hope they’ll forgive us.’We went to separate beds and slept uneasily. Zizi, who’d come up, at Ma’s request, to support me for the funeral, spent the night in Faith’s bed and left first thing on Saturday morning. I’d slept alone since Faith had left.I saw her car come up the lane. Matilda stood beside me, waiting in the office. Faith was getting out of her car when I went out to meet her. The smile of joy and expectation on her face died in concern as she looked into my face.‘Leigh, what’s happened?’I had it all planned; how I would lead up to the events, skirt around the final tragedy, leave out the gruesome details and break it to her gently.‘Netta’s been raped and murdered.’She looked at me for the briefest of moments as if I’d uttered some meaningless foreign phrase, then she took me in her arms to comfort me. She, who’d lost the sister she loved, supported me in my grief.She had to know it all and I felt compelled to tell her. Matilda was silent throughout and let me tell the tale in its entirety. At last I made my confession to the woman I loved. ‘It’s my fault. If I hadn’t taken advantage of you, she would never…’‘If that makes it your fault, Leigh, it makes it mine as well. You took no advantage. I invited you. If our making love caused Netta’s rape and murder, then I’m as much to blame as you.’‘No. No, you were an innocent party in all this.’‘Leigh, you’re wrong. It must be both or neither of us. You did nothing to me Leigh. What we did we did together, with each other. I was no more innocent, or guilty, of our making love than you were. What we did was make love with each other, not you to me, nor me to you. If not making love, then what can be mutual between two people?’‘You’re not to blame, Faith.’‘Then neither are you. Did I run off to the hills to sulk every time you had sex with Netta?’‘You found other ways to retaliate.’‘Once, and under extreme provocation and for reasons far more complex than your display of mutual obsession.’‘There’s no one else to blame.’‘Except Netta herself.’Matilda drew in breath sharply and looked at me. But, though I found it hard to think of Netta being culpable, I couldn’t argue with Faith’s logic and I was too drained to fight. Faith understood the quandary she’d given me and softened her attack. ‘There’s only one person to blame, Leigh: the brutal bastard who did it.’‘They don’t know who it was.’‘I do.’I saw my own incredulity echoed on Matilda’s face.‘Have they interviewed Mervyn?’‘He’s got an alibi.’‘With those brothers, I bet he has. It doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.’‘No one can prove it.’‘Perhaps.’Matilda thought we needed time and space. She went home, her way of life under review, her head and heart full of ‘if only’ and ‘what if?’ and the joy in her eyes extinguished.Faith and I went to our separate beds that night, until she came to me in the early hours seeking and offering comfort. We embraced and found some help in that, but for the first time ever, I was incapable of making love.‘It’s not important. It isn’t what I came for, Leigh. I just wanted to hold you and be in your arms, be next to you, that’s all.’But I didn’t sleep that night. When she woke, I tried again, but the image of Netta lying used and broken in that pit wouldn’t leave my mind and I couldn’t respond to Faith’s touch. All I could see was Netta’s cold abandoned body, hurt, abused and defiled. I left my bed, disturbed and anxious at this new torment.‘Come back and hold me, Leigh.’But I wanted more than that, I needed more. I feared each time I moved to touch her I would find that appalling image of Netta excluding all else from my mind. I went down to breakfast alone.So, the days and nights went by and nothing changed except that the lack of sex grew like a cancer between us, cold and cruel in its isolating force.Faith came to me later that week with pictures from her holiday, pictures of her at the cottage, in the sea, lying under the sun, all taken with me in mind and all wonderful but useless now. Netta, lifeless and defiled, invaded my mind every time I looked at her. She undressed me one evening, in the sitting room, and removed her own clothes, simply and without ceremony, slowly unveiling her beauty for me. She knelt before me, and all I could see was the image of Netta, damaged and used in the pit.So, at my unexplained request, we slept in separate beds and I avoided her touch for the pain of the memory. Netta lived on in my mind when I was alone. I printed the series of pictures I’d taken of her in the hills, intending to produce a book. But the prints became mine and I wouldn’t share them with others; I didn’t deserve the acclaim they would bring. As long as I kept her mine, she would still be around and untouched.Faith did her work and daily tried reaching toward me, but I couldn’t bear the pain of her disappointment.Four weeks after we buried Netta, Faith came to me with tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks. She was desolate and needed comfort only I could give.‘Eric’s dead. The doctor’s just phoned me.’It did something to her, that news. She seemed to withdraw into herself, seemed to lose her will to reach me. The funeral, another that year, brought Zizi faithfully back up, this time to offer support and comfort to Faith.And that night I took Zizi to my bed and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her all night.‘Bastard, aren’t you, Leigh? I came to comfort Faith and you take advantage of me, instead. I’m glad I’ve been some use to you. I can’t hate you; I still love you too much. But I don’t like you, Leigh, I don’t like you one little bit.’‘It’s because I love her I can’t…’‘It’s because you love yourself too much, you selfish shit.’ And Zizi returned to London.Faith rescued Bruce from certain death at the local vet’s and brought him, with my grudging acceptance, to Longhouse. Later that week, she found she would inherit the cottage that Eric had shared with her father. She and Bruce moved out of Longhouse the following day.
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